Scar Tissue
by fortheloveofdaisies
Summary: They were two halves of a whole; inseparable as linked hands of friendship threaded into love. Then he ripped apart from the bond, took every strand of her with him, and she unraveled. When he returns, can they become whole again? *TOWTF ALTERED*
1. Prologue

**A/N: Please be nice. First attempt at something like this. Ish. Thanks for readin :) **

**Longer A/N at the end. Beware.**

**Twilight = Not mine.**

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><p><strong><strong>"It has been said that 'Time heals all wounds.'" I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone."

-Rose Kennedy

Prologue

It's cold and dark, the air damp and smelling faintly of motor oil, and I would turn on the light if I knew where it was, but I can't see shit. I make my way through the gray shadows of the garage, the booming music and chatter of the party muted here in the dimness that acts as a bubble. The distorted peace makes me feel like I'm underwater, the real world above and moving while I sit on the floor and watch the rippling figures, an anchor in the sea.

I don't want to break the surface.

There are too many thoughts in my head, cramming together like an overcrowded high school hallway, clamoring students in small spaces, and each and every one of them is me.

And just as I start relishing in the garbled quiet of water in my ears, the sounds come tumbling back in, amplified and sharp; shitty modern music and laughing and beer bottles clinking. Intruder. The sounds are back to being sealed just as fast as they were let loose, the person having shut the door, but I can hear them walking around in the dark and whatever peace I was clinging to is now interrupted, which pisses me the fuck off.

I grit my teeth and my eyes snap open as I turn around, preparing to tell this bastard that barged in to go back to the party and leave me the hell alone. "There's someone in he—"

And my throat catches my voice like a Venus flytrap snapping shut, my breath having jumped.

He stands there, all shadowed and pale, forearms and knees the most visible. And his face.

His face.

It's stunned, as if his eyes do not believe the sight before him, and I'm one to speak because I can hardly stop from pinching my own arm myself because what the actual fuck.

We are silent and staring, puzzled and awkward, and the tension is so thick, it chokes me.

I always pictured this moment differently.

I would never admit, of course, that I pictured this moment _period_.

But I did. In those creeping nights of lonely desperation, when I woke from dreams and nightmares filled with his face and yearned for his presence so bad it hurt to breathe, when I caught the glimpse of an old photograph I hadn't thoroughly disposed of, when I let my mind wander and wonder and tread the dangerous waters that were my thoughts of him.

I knew I could drown. And yet I dove.

I thought of my words, my posture, my facial expressions, of my ferocity as I hurled words at him. I thought of if his hair would look different, if he'd be different, if I'd be different. Healed.

And now I know the answer. A mental smirk slaps against my mind, condescending and cruel as I internally shake my head at my own stupidity.

Silly Bella. Thinking you were _healed_. Can't you see the wound, gushing forth with blood just as red and fresh as the day he cut you, two years ago? It pulses, deep in my gut, the beat matching my heart.

I feel foolish and embarrassed, exposed in the darkness with him here with me and why is he here and why am I and there is no more we.

"I didn't…Alice said you were at home," he says, low and deep and indisputably familiar, making me gulp against the homey feeling growing warm in my chest at the voice I'd spend hours trying to get out of my head.

Say something, say something, say something. Something.

My eyes find his shirt because I can't stand looking at his face and the too-easily recognizable furrows and quirks of his features that give away everything I've tried to forget.

"I…" My voice hangs there, limp, discontinued. What is there to say?

He was my friend. My other half. My confidante, kindred spirit, whatever the fuck you want to call it. He was my…He was mine. Soul mate, best friend, lover, the crazy glue that kept me sane, anything and everything, he was it.

And naturally, everything was taken, ripped from me, sliced and torn away when he left.

When he left.

Gone.

"Bella?" he breathes, and only then do I realize I've closed my eyes, a habit I took to whenever painful memories seeped through to my brain, images and sounds, the past slashing the present.

My eyes snap open and I fight a flinch at the jade intensity staring back at me, wondering and wondrous.

"What are you doing here?"

And my knees wobble at the accusation in his words, the confusion in his eyes. Pain stabs at my chest, making my exhale shakier than I'd like because what are you doing here, Bella, in the dark with your past, the star of your memories, dreams, nightmares?

But no.

He. He's the one whose presence needs to be questioned.

And my back is straightened as my forehead furrows, shaky strength surging through my bones. "No."

He has the decency to look somewhat fazed.

"What are you doing here? Edward?" Sugar-laced acid on my tongue when his name is pushed through my teeth, the sound foreign and welcome.

I used to say it out loud; to the air, to my walls, to my ceiling, screamed it to the sky on my knees. A curse.

Now, with him standing before me, his body so thick with existence, his name coated with my breath, it's not so bad as before.

Before.

And the memories come like a freak storm, deceiving blue skies breaking apart for the rushing thunder and harsh gray rain. My mind fights against itself, trying to stop them from coming, but the drops of reminiscence are already pouring.

Pitter-patter.

_Hushed laughter in the library, sneaky glances in Biology, hands held in the cafeteria, whispered promises in the driveway, words that float through the air and weigh me down as he tells me "Always, Bella, always."_

Pitter-patter.

_Too eager and too cramped, breath against my face, eyes and throat and lips kissing, sucking, reverent, fingers trailing, trailing, weaving, holding, wrapping, marking me as his, him as mine. Mine._

Pitter-patter.

_He smiles in the sun, rosy cheeks and freckled nose, swinging legs from the branches, and the pesky feeling rises again as I watch him from the ground, and I push it down, down, until it's under my feet and I smash it, thoughts chanting: friend, he's a friend and nothing more, never anything more and don't let yourself fall because it takes too much to get back up._

Pitter-patter.

Pitter-patter.

The downpour continues behind my eyelids, which are bone dry.

"Bella?" And it's the second time he's said my name.

It makes my heart beat slower and faster at the same time, eyes closing. Savor. Deflect. Relax. Flinch.

He makes a sound and I open my eyes to the sight of him taking a step closer.

I want to extend my arms.

And slap him.

Caress him.

Laugh. Cry. Smile. Frown. Accept. Deny. Kiss. Bite.

I want him near and far and his eyes open and shut and to push him away and drag him forward and to take his hand and squeeze too tight and kick his shins and questions flood my brain, along with accusations, sweet mingling with bitter and why is he here?

"I need to go," And I move past him with my eyes on the floor, the slight ruffle of contact when I pass him enough to make me want to pull him closer and cringe at the same time.

He doesn't follow, or maybe he does and I can't hear because it's too loud again as the garage door opens to the party, bright, flashing, booming and jarring.

I don't see faces, I only see the front door as I run through it, fingers fumbling with my keys as I spot my truck. I get in and start the engine and my breaths are too fast and my mind is drenched with disorder but I put it in reverse and back out of the parking spot and I am gone and leaving and breathe, Bella, breathe.

I tell myself that despite the trembling in my fingers, the shakiness in my bones, the lack of focus in my vision, and the shallowness of my breaths, that I have done it. I left.

The realization is a metal balloon blooming in my chest, a heaviness that leaves me lightheaded, the feeling sparkling and new and not altogether pleasant.

I left.

I left him before I gave him a chance to leave me.

Again.

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><p><strong>AN: So…I recently took down one of my other stories, The One With The Flashbacks. The truth is, I liked the idea/plot of it, but my delivery from two years ago is a little different from my style now. The characters needed some tuning up, as did the organization. This story is very similar to TOWTF, but undeniably altered, too. If you're coming from TOWTF expecting something like it, don't be too expectant. This isn't drastically different, seeing as the themes and plot and overall story line is the same, but like I mentioned, delivery characters, and style is somewhat changed.**

**Phew. Monster of an A/N. My apologies :/ Explanations take a long time with me. Anyway, I hope you guys like this prologue enough to come back in a week or so for the first chapter! I'll try and update as soon as I can :) Don't forget to R&R! Thanks again.**


	2. Watch The Day Disintegrate

**A/N: Just trying to update whenever I can. May be late, may be early. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Oh and the confusion thing? It's on purpose :)**

**By the by, when there's a line straight across the page followed by the center letters "ST" and another straight line, it's a flashback. Just so's you knows!**

**Twilight? Not mine. Sad face.**

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><p>Chapter One: Watch the Day Disintegrate<p>

I hate this place. Blazing detestation surges through my veins when I look out at the painfully familiar scenery, greens and grays meshing together like a watercolor painting. It's a beautiful, refreshing backdrop. And I loathe it.

It's been a year since I last stepped foot on Washington soil—_Forks_ soil, no less—and I swear I flinch when my foot hits the ground as I step out of the airport and over to where Alice agreed she'd pick me up.

Alice.

Thinking of her twinkling laughs and chirpy commands relaxes me a little, and for a moment, I forget all about the last two years and why I haven't returned to this place.

This rusty town. This dusty life. With faces and places that have plagued my nights and days.

And just when I'm about to go into full memory-lane mode, a loud, high, obnoxious honk steals my attention and I jerk my head upwards to see where it's coming from.

"Oh, Christ," I mutter once spotting the small yellow Porsche that's shiny enough to be a second sun screech to a stop right in front of my waiting figure. Behind the wheel, bouncing in her seat, flinging the driver's door open and now hurtling towards me at the speed of sound is the storm that is Alice Brandon.

"Bellaaaa!" she shrieks, making me wince at the pressure in my ears following her scream of delight.

Her tiny arms wrap around mine in a fiercely tight hug and I rock back on my heels at the force, laughing with her because damn it, I've missed her.

I tell her so. "I forgot how much I missed you," I smile, a little embarrassed.

Alice has none of it, though. She picks up one of my suitcases, leaving me to carry the other one, and winks. "Well, I am very missable," she shrugs, smiling widely.

She asks me about the flight and school and California and makes the expected remark concerning my inability to tan and I roll my eyes and laugh it off and before I know it, we're speeding down the forest-engulfed highway, on our way to my hometown. The one I spent my childhood hating and loving and waiting to break free from.

I'm coming back to it all. And it's a strange feeling, watching the familiar trees and signs with renewed eyes. There's a part of me that exhales in relief, but another tightens in anxiety. Simultaneously. Yeah, that's not confusing at all.

"You miss it," Alice says after fifteen minutes of driving in silence. I should've known she'd be the first to break it. The girl talks like it's her main source of acquiring the will to live.

Her words are quiet but sure, and it's like she's telling me some kind of secret I couldn't have found out on my own.

I furrow my brow automatically, darting my eyes from the speeding greenery out my window to her bright, black-rimmed eyes. She's watching the road, but listening to me.

"I don't know. I guess. I mean, I haven't been gone for that long." I really haven't. A year. That's it. I left Forks the moment after graduation, and haven't looked back. I wasn't planning to.

But plans have a funny way of not working out.

"Yeah, that's true," she nods in assent, pursing her lips. "Well. We missed you, if that's any consolation," she shrugs, and it's one of those amazingly rare moments when Alice Brandon is just a teeny bit timid.

I grin, wide and goofy, and lightly punch her shoulder, laughing.

"Ow! Jeez, Bella, what the hell—were you taking steroids in Cali?" she snorts.

"I missed you guys too, you big goon," I nearly shout, and then shake my head. "And you better toughen up, Brandon. That punch was half-assed."

"A lot like your wardrobe?" she mutters just loud enough for me to hear her.

I gape and narrow my eyes at her snickering figure. "You're lucky you're driving, or else I'd be kicking your ass right now. Watch it." I can't even finish the sentence without busting into a fit of laughter, and she joins in, calling me out on my shit and it's just like old times.

And I don't know why that hurts a little.

We talk about her ridiculously ostentatious vehicle and Stanford and my classes and professors riding me hard (earning a wink and snicker or two thanks to the perverted mind of Alice), and that's how we end up discussing the single most uncomfortable topic for me as of late, besides coming back home to Forks for the summer.

"So, you seeing anybody?"

I hate that question. A hundred remarks pop in my head that would be a surefire way of getting her to shut up.

_Who cares? None of your business. Wouldn't you like to know. If I'd have known there was gonna be a pop quiz, I would've studied. I see people every day, Alice__—__I have these things called eyes..._

But she's Alice. My best friend. Nosy-ass, persistent-as-hell, no-sense-of-personal-boundaries best friend Alice.

"Um." I look down at my fingers, then back up, watching her face twist from curious to suspicious, then confused and impatient. "Actually…no."

"Oh," she nods, raising her eyebrows a little.

"Yeah. I haven't really had time…I mean, Creative Writing is demanding as hell, plus with my job off campus and—"

"I didn't ask for an explanation, Swan," she grins, interrupting me.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Right. So how about you?"

And so begins the half-an-hour rant of how loveless Alice's college days have been. She tells me how she attends Peninsula College up in Port Angeles and bunks with her roommate/old classmate Jessica in an apartment a few minutes away from campus.

"She's an _artist_," she tells me with obvious mocking flourish, making an illegal U-turn because she missed an earlier left, and I grin and shake my head, feeling the empty ache of sadness because holy shit I've missed her.

This is the dangerous thing about coming back home. You start realizing what you left behind and questioning why you did in the first place.

But this is Alice. Alice, for Christ's sake. Alice. Who's not going anywhere. Who I've missed dearly.

"Bella?" she calls me out of my thoughts. "You listening?"

I smile, "Yes, Alice."

Her eyes on the road, she nods, then continues with tale of her life as of the last year.

"So she drags home a new guy almost once a week, and they're all really…hot." She sighs, longing, and I'm thinking of all the guys I know who can be matched up with her because she deserves someone, dammit.

"But I don't do anything, of course, because first of all, Jess is kind of gross and weird and, you know, a slut, as we've established, and I don't want to be catching some social disease from my whore roommate. And second of all, there's the whole morally-corrupt thing about it. They're _hers_, technically, and I'd be such a skank-bitch if I hooked up with one of them. And I may be a bit of a bitch, sure, but skank-bitch? _Please_," she says, cocking her head to the side, pursing her lips, and putting on an exaggerated expression of carelessness.

I laugh because she's funny and hyper and I haven't felt this…_okay_ in a long time.

I can only hope it'll last.

…

I don't even have to knock before door swings open immediately and violently, making me step back in shock.

I think I laugh a little. And then I'm just smiling awkwardly, telling myself that I need to look in his eyes because staring at my shoes is so high school and I'm a college girl now, damn it.

His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes that match my own, and he's hugging me, squeezing a little too tight and speaking into my ear.

"Welcome back, Bells."

I laugh shakily and he lets me go so that we're just standing there in the doorway, trying to ease the tension in the air by smiling pleasantly at each other. Neither of us are the touchy-feely type, but some moments call for hugs. I guess that was one of them.

"It's good to be back, Dad," and I think I can lie for him. I have to. It isn't completely false, anyway.

If he can sense my half-truth, he doesn't call me out on it, instead grabbing my luggage on the porch and dragging it inside, asking me about the flight and California and Stanford.

I chuckle at his inquisitiveness and answer his questions, mostly about school and housing, thankfully avoiding any personal matters.

We settle into the living room with a Mariners game muted in the background, the flashing scenes casting shadows and lights across my dad's face. It's then that I notice the wrinkles around his nose and mouth, the droop of his eyes and neck.

A year doesn't seem like a long time, but the proof is here, in front of me, squinty-eyed and tired.

Charlie is old. Or, getting there.

This realization is striking, suddenly, and I know in that moment that I made the right choice in coming back.

He needs me.

I felt the recognizable guilt as expected, when I glanced around the house earlier and saw its usual disarray much worse than before. A mountain of dishes in the sink, dirty clothes in the hallway, old newspapers and magazines strewn across the living room floor and kitchen table.

I don't even want to talk about what I found in the refrigerator.

And the voice whispers in my head, accusing: _How could you do it? How could you leave?_

How could I not?

But I'm here. Now. For the summer, just like we agreed.

I shake the thoughts away, like a waving hand cutting through a fog, and focus on what Charlie's saying.

"What was that?" I clear my throat. He sits in his chair in the corner while I'm perched comfortably on the couch across from him, the cluttered coffee table holding our coaster-less cups of tea that will probably leave behind rings on the dull slab of wood.

"Do you have plans for dinner?" he repeats.

"Oh." I blink, thoughts of the ten frozen dinners I spotted in the freezer just minutes before clashing with the memory of earlier agreeing to have dinner with Rose and Alice tonight. "Um…I don't really know yet, Dad. I could whip up something real quick if you wa—"

He shakes his head, eyebrows drawn together. "I'm a grown man, Bells, I can take care of myself. Jesus," he grumbles, making me smile. Same old Charlie.

I snort, thinking back to the overflowing laundry hamper. "Is that so?" I ask, gaze on the shit-filled table between us.

"Well." He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, glancing around the living room. "I'm no Bobby Flay, but I manage to eat every few days or so," he pats his belly, which has grown a little more from the last time I was here, his words obviously sarcastic.

I scoff. "When's the last time you had a home-cooked meal?"

"Honestly?"

I roll my eyes with a nod, gesturing for him to continue.

He tilts his head, scratching the scruff on his chin. "Uh…I guess that'd be around…Yeah, around December. I headed down to the Blacks for Christmas dinner, and Emily—Sam's new girl—she made this feast," he chuckles, deep and rumbling and I miss that sound. "Those La Push boys really know their way around a fork and spoon, let me tell you that," he nods, smiling at the memory.

I smile back, rising out of my seat on the couch, heading to the kitchen without another word.

December. Christmas. That's over five months ago. I think back to all the pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers lying around the kitchen counters. No wonder Charlie's health is slipping.

"Uh, what are you doing, Bells?" he calls from the living room as I walk through the hallway and into the kitchen.

"Making you dinner, Charlie," I shout back. I wince at the last word, hoping he'll let it slip just like before, and survey the kitchen.

The sink is full, the counters stuffed with trash. I whistle low, hearing the creaking of the floorboards as my dad makes his way to the kitchen to join me in my perusal.

He sighs, taking his stance next to me. Together, our eyes rove across the freak mess. "Yeah, I haven't exactly gotten around to cleaning…it."

"It?"

"The kitchen."

"Right," I snort. "The kitchen."

"Alright, alright," he smiles faintly despite his reprimanding tone. "The whole house is in desperate need of some Ty Pennington," he jokes, and I turn my head to gape at him, disbelieving at his up-to-date references.

"What?" he asks, shrugging. "I'm a hip man now, Bells, didn't you hear?" And then he winks.

My father, Charlie Swan, winks.

Some people are capable of change, it seems.

I wonder if I'm one of them.

…

"Fuck, it's cold," I shiver, snatching off my gloves to press my bare fingers against the vents emanating heavenly heat.

Alice laughs, the sound like bells tinkling, and shakes her head, putting the car in reverse. "Get it together, California. You better thicken that pretty skin of yours if you're going to survive summer in Washington."

I roll my eyes and flip Alice the bird, then shiver again, causing her to laugh.

Charlie ended up shooing me out of the kitchen when I tried cooking him a warm meal, claiming my need to get a tetanus shot first and explaining his built immunity to roaches and rusty nails after prolonged exposure to such lovely things. I wound up unpacking all my shit from my luggage in my old room.

Now that was an odd incident.

I opened the door of my old room and instantly felt like the wind was knocked out of me. I don't know what I was expecting.

No, that's a lie. I did know. I prepared myself to be unaffected and offhand when I strolled into my room. I told myself I'd flip on the lights, shrug at the same scenery of my bed, desk, lamps, rugs, and bookshelves, and go about doing my thing, whatever that was.

It went a little differently.

The smell was the most shocking, I think. It smelled exactly the same, like me and him and us, and it was a torture that I found myself savoring. I knew that I'd get accustomed to the mingling scents just like I had that year ago, that I'd waltz in here and not even recognize how distinct the stale scent of him and I was, but that would take time.

I stared a lot.

At my bed. The images tumbled down like an avalanche, each worse than the prior, and I fingered the sheets, remembering a time when they rustled with the life of two people under them.

And then. With the restless heartbreak of just one.

Alice was keen, able to detect my thick throat over the phone when she called to confirm dinner plans at Rose's, and demanded for me to be dressed within the next twenty minutes.

Which is why I'm sitting in her car with the same jeans and a fresh shirt, hair sloppy, barely a swipe of mascara at my eyelashes, the buttons of my coat mismatched in my haste.

The girl is punctual.

Dinner with friends is supposed to be casual anyway, right?

"So Rose's parents are out of town for the summer, thanks to their latest obsession with like European art or something," she shrugs, rolling her eyes, and I do the same. The Hales and their latest obsessions. More like distractions.

Hey, Pot, you know Kettle, right? You two look awfully similar…

"So it's just going to be her and Emmett and the two of us," she grins, eyes darting to meet mine. "Sound okay?"

I sigh, feeling the exhaustion from the flight and busy day draining me, and nod. "Sounds perfect."

As she drives, I tell her about the pros and cons living in California, explaining how not all stereotypes are wrong and recounting that time I saw the dude from Teen Wolf at a supermarket, and she fills me in on the latest gossip.

"No way," I breathe, gawking at Alice's smug face.

She nods, the little know-it-all, and continues. "Yep. It's true. Tyler and Lauren. Knocked up. Can you believe it?"

I blink, shaking my head a little. "They weren't even, like, together in high school. Wasn't she dating that Ben guy or something?"

"No, no, that was Angela. Speaking of them, I hear the happy couple is thinking of tying the knot," she raises her eyebrows quickly.

"Holy shit!"

"I know!"

"But they're…I mean, they're our age, right?" She nods and I continue. "Nineteen. Nineteen? God, that's…insane. They're so young. And just…" I shake my head, whistling high.

"Well, if they're in love, then you know." Alice purses her lips, shrugging. "What can you do?"

I want to scoff. "Oh, I don't know, use their brains and think? How are they going to support each other? They probably don't even have jobs yet. Or school, what about that?"

Alice looks shocked, and a little offended. "Jeez, I think they already have parents to crush their hopes and dreams, you don't have to assume that position," she snorts, but there's truth to it. I can tell she honestly believes in all that "love is all we need" bullshit.

I shrug, feeling uncomfortable suddenly. Here Alice is, all dreams and rainbows and fairy dust, and I'm the pragmatic asshole trying to shake her awake with facts and questions regarding five-year plans.

"I don't know, I just…I'm being realistic," I nibble on my lower lip.

She makes a noncommittal sound, turning left into a street paved with fancy-ass houses. "There's a difference between realism and pessimism, Bella."

I laugh dryly. "Thanks, Webster."

She just sighs in return, a faint smile on her face.

We pull up into the driveway of a two-story colonial that makes me gulp and stare slack-jawed in awe. White paint, blue trimming, a bright red door, fresh-cut grass, trimmed hedges. It looks like a dollhouse.

We get out of the car and walk slowly up the path, Alice muttering something about forgetting her gloves, but the house is too gorgeous to tear my attention from.

And then the door opens and yep, my suspicions of this establishment being a dollhouse are proven correct, because out steps Barbie.

"Bella!" Rose shouts, walking down the few steps and the rest of the stone-paved path to meet us halfway.

"Hi," I exhale because I'm fucking freezing and Rose is the sort of beautiful that's pretty intimidating up close.

We hug, murmuring the appropriate polite greetings, and then she leads Alice and I into the house, the warmth like a wall that hits my muscles and immediately thaws them out.

"You want anything to drink?" she asks, shutting the door behind her as the three of us enter the foyer. Alice and I shrug out of our coats and I remove my gloves, placing all my shit on a coat rack near the door.

Rose starts walking to the kitchen backwards, eyebrows raised, awaiting our answers.

"Club soda," Alice tells her, and Rose nods.

"Just water is fine," I smile.

"Same old Bella," she teases. "So plain."

I just shrug, unsure why most people take that as an insult, and Rose asks for Alice's help in retrieving the drinks, murmuring something in her ear as the two scurry off into the kitchen, their voices hushed.

_Okaaay_…

I feel more like an observer in a museum than a guest in a home, taking a right out of the foyer and into the living room where everything looks antiqued and polished and like it belongs on a display case. The fireplace is lit, even though it's fucking June, and I notice the row of picture frames scattered across the mantle, the flickering fire casting oranges and grays against the square glass.

Intrigued, I walk over to them, inspecting the ones I can see in the dim light.

Rose sits cross-legged at the beach, sunlit and freckled in a one-piece that's too small for her, stringy wet hair hanging on the sides of her face. She can't be any older than twelve, all knobby knees and stick-thin limbs, curves a foreign concept.

Another one shows her a little older, maybe fifteen, at the side of her father. They're at a fair of some sort, or so I assume from the blurry lights behind them shaped in a huge circle. She holds a stick of cotton candy and is offering some to her dad, looking at his face while he smiles into the camera.

And then I'm staring at one that stops my breath and knocks my knees, my eyes stuck as well as my pulse.

Rose is in front of the high school in her cheerleading outfit, looking immaculate as usual with Emmett's arm draped across her back, his hand dangling off her shoulder. They're both staring at each other, oblivious to the outside world, to the photographer, to the impatient boy on Emmett's right. The one with messy bronze hair, a killer jaw line etched into a scowl, faraway eyes bored and dull and staring irritatingly at the boy consumed with the girl, hand holding a plain white binder against his leg with a backpack strap hanging off one shoulder.

The picture is obviously meant to be a tribute to the couple, to show how in love they were to ignore the photographer and the brooding boy, but I can't tear my eyes away from that face.

That face. I thought I'd forgotten.

I can only think of how much worse off I would be if his eyes were boring into the camera lens.

"Bella?"

I jump and yelp like a puppy, gasping with a hand clutched to my chest, the spell momentarily broken.

Thudding heartbeats, warmth in my veins, and I can breathe again. I whip around, panting.

A shaky smile. "Emmett?"

He smiles widely, showing off those panty-dropping dimples, and stretches his arms out. "Welcome back, Swan," he laughs, booming and welcoming.

It's funny how easily I allow myself to hug Emmett back when I was all unsteady arms and nervous laughter with Alice and Charlie, my own father, but Emmett has that affect on people. He just soothes them, puts them at ease. It's one of my favorite qualities about him.

When we pull apart, his eyes dart to the picture I was thoroughly engrossed in just a moment prior, and his smile falters, eyebrows furrowed, but still pleasant as ever.

He nods, leading me away from the fireplace and towards one of the couches and we both sit on opposite ends, facing each other. I start wondering where Alice and Rose are.

"I heard you were back in Forks," he says gleefully, making me smile. Contagious.

"You heard right," I nod, laughing a little.

"What brings you back?" he tilts his head. When he asks questions, it's not intrusive. Just casual, curious.

I sigh heavily, earning another dimpled smile from him, and start explaining. "Well, before I left last year, um Charlie and I, we had a bit of a fight."

"Oh, yeah, I remember Rose telling me a little bit about that."

My eyebrows raise. "Oh?"

Immediate sheepishness. He looks down to his lap, pursing his lips. "Don't get pissed at her—she was just worried," he assures me, making me smile.

"No, no, it's fine," I tell him, meaning it. "But yeah, we had a spat. He didn't want me to leave. I mean, he _really_ didn't want me to leave. I couldn't blame him, you know, after everything that happened…You know, with my mom and stuff," I shake my head, chancing a look up at him. His expression is attentive and a little sad. "But I had to leave. Had to get out of here." I laugh a little ruefully and then clear my throat, because we both know it was more than restlessness that made me leave. "Anyway, we finally settled on a compromise. I'd get to leave for Stanford as long as I returned every summer—or at least a major holiday—to visit." I nod, pursing my lips a little. "It was a pretty good deal, I think."

"Hell yeah, it was," he agrees with a fierce nod, forehead wrinkled.

"So that's what I'm doing here," I shrug, exhaling, suddenly very tired.

"Well I, for one, am psyched to have you back," he grins, and my mood is picked up a little. "You're definitely a sight for sore eyes," he laughs. "I was just telling Rosie it was about time we got the old gang back together."

I smile back and nod, but my breathing accelerates and my palms start tingling, all because of those three words.

_The old gang_.

"Hey, Bella?" Alice's voice suddenly chirps from behind me.

I shift in my seat on the couch to turn around and see her standing in the entrance to the living room, smiling and greeting Emmett from her stance.

There's something off, though, to her smile and eyes. Too wide, too bright, too forced. And am I just imagining that slight wrinkle in her forehead as she purses her lips, nodding firmly once more in Emmett's direction?

The fuck?

"Alice?" I ask, worry coating my voice as I rise from the couch.

Her eyes snap to mine, and yeah, there's definitely something going on here. They're wide and anxious as her teeth go to her lip.

"Yeah, Bella, I was just wondering if you could help set the table with me?"

Set the table? For four people?

I cock my head to the right, a skeptical laugh tumbling from my mouth. "What, are we having like a five-course dinner or something?" I nearly snort.

Emmett chuckles from behind me and Alice forces out a laugh, and I walk towards her, turning around to wave and nod to Emmett.

"What's going on?" I whisper as she tugs my arm through the foyer and to the dining room. A polished oak wood table sits in the middle with six identical chairs are placed around it, a china cabinet behind it, complete with delicate cups and utensils inside. There are a variety of plates inside; salad, desert, main course, appetizer, and hold the fucking phone.

My eyes dart around the table, and I count. Again and again.

And again.

"Six?" I squeak out, whirling around to face a very nervous-looking Alice.

Her eyes meet her fingers, which are wringing together. "Um, yeah, so I wanted to talk to you about something…"

My chest is pounding along with my head, throat constricting in panicked gulps, like I'm drowning. I think I might be. "Who else is coming? Alice?"

She finally faces me, bright gray eyes so wide and panicked, guilty and anxious. "We had no idea," she says in a rush, shaking her head. "Er, I didn't. Rose had a suspicion, but I told her no. Absofuckinglutely not."

"Who?" I'm seconds away from shaking her by the shoulders.

"I didn't want him to come, Bella, I swear. He's not even supposed to be in town, but with the new hospital in town—"

My voice crumbles. "Oh, God." She doesn't need to say anything else.

"It's okay, Bella, it's okay, you don't have to—"

"It's _okay?_" I hiss, anger forcing me to shoot daggers into her eyes. I must look like a feral animal, wild eyes, claws slashing against my cage, and I want out.

"It was Emmett's idea," she blurts out, and I'm surprised by how much hatred I now feel towards the jovial boy I spoke to in the living room minutes ago.

"Do you understand how—" I start but can't finish because the dining room, as it turns out, provides a perfect view of the driveway and all my words halt because there's a flashing of headlights splashed across the pavement and behind Alice's Porsche and I see a peek of silver as the car is parked.

"Shit," I whisper, and I can feel it now, the fight or flight reflex kicking in. I've been confronted with it so many times, and always chose flight. Why not, right?

I was just following suit, after all.

And this time is no different.

"Bella," Alice gulps, and my eyes dance from hers to the window where the driver's door is flung open and out steps a hazy lanky figure.

My eyes shut because I just can't, I can't I can't, and I tell Alice this.

She nods, biting her lip, and exhales shakily. "The back door," she tells me.

I'm flying out of the dining room, through the kitchen, stomping through the back hallway where Rose is about to ask where I'm going and I answer her with a simple strangled, "I can't."

I'm out the back door, relishing in the cold air that soothes my mind and awakens my bones and I'm shivering, shaking, and out.

I tell myself I'm not a coward for leaving as I start the short walk back to Charlie's, grateful that Rose lives no more than fifteen minutes away by car and that it's summer in Forks, not winter.

I left my coat and gloves, but fuck if I care.

"So close," I whisper to myself, hands jammed in my pockets. "So close."

And I don't know whether I'm ecstatic or heartbroken because of it.

* * *

><p><strong>-ST-<strong>

* * *

><p>There are a million things that bring discomfort at this moment. The itchy dress rubbing against my back, the chilly air biting at my bare knees, the heeled shoes sucking strength out of my soles, the painted-on expressions of sympathy I receive at any and every corner I turn, and the sob caught in my throat, unwilling to go up or down, as the coffin sinks into the ground, the earth swallowing up the body forever.<p>

The flesh will rot, the bones will dust, the hair will fade, the clothes will shrivel.

Does nothing last in this world?

"Bella. _Bella_." A jolt against my shoulder, pulling me out of the sea of thoughts warring in my head.

I blink and glance up, bewildered. "Huh?"

Charlie's eyes are red-rimmed, his nose dripping as he gulps and nods towards the lowered casket now invisible from my standpoint. "Come on." He walks a few steps forward, still a good two feet from the cut earth and bends, gathering a handful of dirt.

"Oh." I blink a few times and walk forward to where my father stands, my eyes wandering around me until they land on the few uniformed men with shovels surrounding a big tractor-looking thing five yards to the right of us. I watch them chat and lean on their spades and one of them smiles, as if he isn't about to bury the remains of someone's life to be seen never again, as if he isn't going to suffocate the leftovers of a once-living being with the dark curtain of dirt.

It irks me. Deeply.

"Bella? _Bella_. Come on," Charlie sniffs. His hand grips my elbow and before I know it, my gaze tears away from the graveyard diggers and I'm staring down at the rectangular chunk of dark space, the coffin fitting snug between the walls of soil. It's like a huge square-shaped eye carved out from the earth, wide and dark and unblinking.

I gulp, suddenly and undeniably nauseous.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

But all I can smell is cherry wood and damp dirt and the suffocating scent of a stolen pulse.

"Dad…" I begin, unsure, and we both ignore the awkwardness at me using a title I haven't uttered in over five years.

"It's okay, Bells," he whispers, and I want to laugh in his face and shove his chest because who is he kidding? It isn't okay. It is everything but _okay_.

I don't realize I'm bending to gather the traditional fistful of dirt until I have it, fresh and rich in my palm, the color of my hair.

We both throw our handfuls of crumpled earth in over the coffin, a last and final farewell, and it feels a lot more like I'm helping bury her rather than saying goodbye.

Maybe there's not a difference.

And now we turn away from the gaping hole, leaving her behind. Charlie takes my clean hand and it feels limp and forced in my grip, but we hold on to each other anyway, as the crowds of black-clad mourners lead us to the funeral home.

To the reception we go.

I wipe my hand against my dress.

But I can still feel it there, a thin film of filth and dust on the surface of my palm.

I wipe it on my side again. And again.

It sticks, though; the smothered grime smeared across my hand like a swath of dark paint.

And no matter how many times I rub it against my dress, I can still feel it.

I'm still feeling it when I've locked myself in the bathroom thirty minutes later, my palm under the sink, steam rising from the faucet as I turn the left handle and a rush of hot water pours down on my hand, burning and scorching but not cleaning.

"Come on," I mutter, scrubbing against my palm with the fingers of my other hand, trying to wash out the dirt embedded in my skin.

"Come on," and the dirt stays put, stubborn and permanent.

"Bells!" Charlie bangs outside the bathroom door, the faint voices of attendees chatting outside, making me cringe.

I bite my lip, furrowed brows and itching flesh under the faucet. I don't want to answer him. I don't have to. I won't.

"Bella," he calls again, voice tired and annoyed, which makes me all the more resolute to keep the door locked. I'm being stubborn and ridiculously childish and I can just imagine what remark that prissy princess Lauren Mallory from the schoolyard would make about fourteen-year-old ladies needing to act elegant and graceful and established, but I don't give a rat's ass. He can mutter polite thanks and smile plastically at all the guests and listen to them prattle and sob on and on about how magical a spirit she was on this Earth to his heart's content.

I'm staying in here. Locked in the bathroom. Scrubbing my palms.

Trying to get the fucking dirt off.

He knocks incessantly and I continue to ignore him, instead focusing on the obstinate, immovable flecks of soil against my palm and I want it off off off because if she's going to leave I want her gone, no trace of her behind and then I glance up at the fogging mirror and who am I kidding.

My palm starts to burn.

"Bella?"

And I freeze as there are three soft raps on the door, this voice different from Charlie's.

"Bella," the voice says again, and I picture a tired expression of defeat on his worn face. "Can you please come out? Charlie's losing his shit…Everyone's asking for you," he pleads. "Please come out?"

I think of how the crowds outside must have dissipated at least a little for him to be using profanity.

I want to ask him whose side he's on.

"No," I shout back instead.

A pause. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until he answers.

"Then can I come in?"

And it's not a smile, but something better than a frown that happens to my mouth for the first time in the last few weeks of my life that have equated to being a living hell.

I don't bother to turn off the faucet when I move for the door to turn the knob and there he is, messy hair and wrinkled polo shirt, untied laces and a stain on his pants pocket.

"What?" Edward looks at me with a guarded and worried expression, green eyes troubled.

I point at his shirt. "Your tie's crooked."

"Oh," he shrugs carelessly, then steps inside the bathroom without even giving a last glance to the crowds of people behind him.

The ones who are staring as Edward Cullen steps into a room with Isabella Swan, a shut door locking behind them.

I gulp when I realize we're both in here alone, and my mind tells my heart to quiet that whole thumping wildly thing because I can't hear my thoughts with all that racket and calm down, it's just Edward.

But that's just it. Just. Edward.

Lately he hasn't been Just Edward anymore, and it's absolutely terrifying. In an almost good way.

But it's too confusing to think those thoughts of pesky hearth thumps and lingering gazes that aren't exactly strictly friendly, so I force myself to focus on other things.

It's too quiet after he enters, the uneasy air prickling my skin, and I hate that this is how it is now. The most recent events have turned us into stuttering, awkward fools, tension written on our faces whenever we're together, because he doesn't know what to do with me and I don't blame him. I don't know what to do with myself. The whole thing is a mess that makes me want to scream. Still, I'd rather let Edward in here than be alone. Even without words, he has the ability to soothe me by just being there.

It both amazes and freaks the shit out of me.

I move to the still-running sink again, scrubbing my hand raw, and feel him stand next to me, both of us staring at my pinkening palm under the hot spray.

"What are you doing?" he asks quietly.

I inhale sharply as my nails dig into my flesh, trying to scrape off the lingering dirt, because it stings, and I'm alarmed at how good it feels. Something tells me that isn't exactly healthy. "I…My hand has dirt on it. I'm washing it. Or trying to," I chuckle tiredly, shaking my head.

"Bella." He says my name like it's a question and moves his head to look at my face more clearly.

I blink up at him. "What?"

And I hate the way he's staring at me right now. Like a mix of sympathy and wounding and pain and sorrow. For me.

"It's being a son of a bitch to get off," I explain with another shaky laugh as I turn to the sink again and stop cackling, Bella, you're not helping the cause.

"Bella—" he makes a move to swat my hand away from the scalding spray but I flinch and jerk back, shaking my head.

"It's really stuck, Edward." I stare down at the sink. "I don't know how I'm going to get this off."

He blinks at me for a moment, deciding that I'm off my rocker. And then he moves his arm to shut off the faucet and I try to stop him but he's too strong and tall and I'm yelling at him to let me wash off the dirt and he's saying I'm clean and hurting myself but I tell him I can still feel it and it won't come off, and "Bella, sto—Jesus!" he curses when his hand accidentally comes into contact with the water in his attempt to shut off the sink.

I back off then, and he finally does halt the rushing liquid and it's only our breathing audible as he winces and rubs his knuckles where the hot water burned him.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, throat clenched, talking to anyone who will listen.

He gulps, "For what?" he asks, voice taut and thin with pain.

I don't answer because I don't have one. Or maybe I have too many.

It's silent and we're just standing there, no more than a foot of space between us because this bathroom is surprisingly small and I feel a growing pressure rise in my chest as I stare at his shiny shoes. It's too quiet, and the lack of distraction lets my mind wander.

No, no, no.

My breaths halt and all I can see is that damned graveyard digger with his yellow smile against the harsh gray sky and didn't he know how badly we were all hurting and why would he fling smiles around like that when he knows we can't return them?

I'm trembling. I'm shaking like a leaf and I don't even know it until Edward's hands are planted on the tops of my shoulders, firm and warm.

It's not fair, it's not fucking fair, and I guess I say it out loud, because he responds.

"I know."

I hate this. I hate it. I hate her. I just hate. I hate I hate I hate.

"I know. Me, too."

I can feel it stirring in the pit of my stomach, the sob that wants to rise and I try pushing it down, but it's adamant, and I'm out of breath and strength and I start trembling again.

He pulls me closer to him and it's not awkward or uncomfortable as our chests press together. It feels like the clicking sound of two magnets snapping together. It feels right. Like home. We fit like this, his chin on the top of my head, my face against his chest, his hands circling my back while mine are weak and lingering at my sides.

This is different from a hug. This is an embrace.

My eyes shut against my tears, but they pour down my face and soak up his shirt anyway and a terrible voice in my head is telling me I've given up and I'm weak and feeble and I want to smash it to the ground. I focus on the silkiness of Edward's tie against my nose instead, on how warm and solid he feels, like my very own mountain to cling to.

He doesn't ask me if I want to talk about it, he doesn't tell me it's alright or that it will be, he doesn't soothe me with whispers or gentle caresses.

He just holds me through the storm raging in me. And then I realize.

An anchor. That's what he is.

His arms envelope mine and it's a little too tight in the best way possible, ensuring that nothing comes leaking out or flying away, and I think of all the times he's been the glue when I fall apart.

"I don't know how to feel." The words tumble out against the collar of his shirt, and for a moment, I imagine them soaking up the fabric.

"How do you feel?" And coming from anyone else's mouth, it would sound trite and condescendingly stupid, but he's Edward and I'm Bella and so it makes sense.

"That's the thing," I shake my head, his chin scratching my scalp. "I don't know," and my voice is a weak whisper. "I don't even _know_."

He nods, pausing. Inhaling. I bet I smell like rain and dirt-drenched mahogany.

"That's okay," he whispers, the heat of his breath drenching my hair, my head, my thoughts.

"Is it?" I sniff. "I feel like there's this list of emotions I have to check off as I go, and I don't even know, dammit. I don't know where I am. Which one I'm feeling." The confusion threatens to shred me, reduce me to a pile of shavings in his arms.

I feel his head shake above mine. "That's not true. There's no emotional chart. You don't need to check them off as you go. You don't _need_ to feel anything, Bella."

I don't know that I believe him. I want to. But my head is shaking on its own accord, and I sigh in puzzlement. "I don't know."

We're silent for a few more minutes, still holding on to each other like it's the most natural thing in the world, because it is.

After a moment, his arms loosen and he takes hold of my shoulders instead of my back as he puts distance between us. My head hangs for a second in the air, embarrassment flushing my face before I clear my throat and straighten my back, the space between our chests feeling like a canyon.

I'm about to blurt out a question when I catch his expression, chewed lips and eyes darting to the door.

Hurt sinking deep in my chest, making me gulp.

Shaky pride leaves my lips and I feign a casual shrug, shaking off his hands that fall to his sides. He glances at me, puzzled.

"You can leave, you know."

"What?" He sounds offended.

"The door," I nod to it. "It's yours to walk through if you want." My voice sounds robotic and detached, and I hate it.

He squints at me, and there's this awful moment where I can see actually see the internal debate going on in his head.

Should I, shouldn't I. Will I, won't I.

He blinks, eyebrows still knitted together almost in disbelief, and he says his words slowly, like taming a wild animal before approaching it. "I'm not going anywhere, Bella."

Oh.

A relieved sigh flies out of my mouth and tumbles to his ears before I can catch it, and why am I so afraid to let him know how I feel?

A small smile tugs at his lips. "Not without you," he continues.

Now I'm the confused one. "Huh?"

The look on his face is screaming mischief, sly smile and eyes that look like they could be winking even when they're open wide.

He pulls my hand towards his, nodding to the door, and when he utters the next words, I know he's talking about more than just the bathroom we've locked ourselves in.

He squeezes my hand and I feel it all the way in my chest, a clenching that isn't unpleasant as he threads his fingers through mine. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The title name comes from the song, "The Medication is Wearing Off" by Eels. Awesome possum. Reviews are what my life source depends on. Don't make me die. Plezzzz.**

**What famous person would you kill to see in RL?**


	3. The Ghost in the Back of Your Head

**A/N: Hello, again. Hope you've come back for more! :)**

**Twilight is not mine, jeez, I get it.**

* * *

><p>Chapter Two: The Ghost in the Back of Your Head<p>

It takes me a minute to realize where I am, to recognize the differences in my surroundings.

Cold creeps through the thin sheets, gloomy gray as I squint my eyes open, so vastly different from the blinding sunshine back in Stanford, and it hits me.

Summer. In Forks. Charlie. Alice, Rose, and Emmett. Dinner last night. And the escape.

The surprise guest.

My teeth fly to my lips instinctively and I inhale a shaky breath as I try to calm down, memories of the freezing panic making me shut my eyes.

_It's okay_, I tell myself, feeling like such an utter nutcase.

My limbs are moving before I decide for them to, acting on their own accord, performing the monotonous routine of my morning ritual as distraction so my mind won't dwell on the present. It's a common, useful, but tiresome practice.

Bed. Check.

Bathroom. Check.

Breakfast. I'll hit the diner.

Charlie left before I awoke, I assume, a yellow Post-It note stuck on the fridge promising his delivery of fresh groceries and mousetraps when he returns home after his shift. His chicken-scratch writing is familiarly welcoming, but then I see a little smiley face, making my forehead quirk.

Well, that's shocking. Charlie and emoticons—hell, Charlie and _emotions_—usually mix as well as water and electrical gadgets.

It dawns on me again that my father might actually be…different. The concept is so foreign though; he's a creature of habit. That's where I get it from, after all. Or that's what I tell myself.

Alice calls me as I grab the familiar keys of my rusty truck but I ignore the flashing screen of my phone, not quite ready to deal with her just yet as I leave the house, locking the door behind me.

My truck feels the same. It even smells the same, like cracked vinyl seats and stale coffee with the sharp whiff of rust. I turn my nose up at it, but smile even so.

It's the one of the few things I'm actually glad to see after a year.

I receive three more missed calls from Alice on my way to The Lodge, an old mom and pop diner Charlie and I lived off during the later years of my teens when I stopped cooking and he stopped caring, but ignore her still. She leaves a voicemail, and I decide to listen to it later.

It doesn't take very long for me to reach the diner and I cut off the engine after I park, anxiety fluttering my stomach as I stare at the grubby, fogged, familiar windows squaring in patrons eating and smiling and talking.

Forks is such a small town. Nothing like sunny Stanford with its busy streets and people, crowds and herds that I could blend in with, just another nameless face in the swarm of students.

I suddenly feel like a dumbass.

There are bound to be more familiar faces inside. More questions. More hesitant answers. More evading.

God, Bella, why couldn't you have just settled for stale cereal and questionably lumpy milk back at Charlie's?

"Get it over with," I mutter to myself, grabbing the keys from the ignition and scooting out the truck.

I inspect the gravel on the way to the entrance, every thought popping in my head insisting I turn back and hide in the shelter of my old home. I ignore them though, which I've gotten surprisingly good at over the years, and finally push through the door to the diner.

And God it smells great. Like fresh pies and sizzling bacon and warmth and everyday chatter that I find myself smiling at despite the ache in my chest because this, this is a good kind of melancholy.

There are a few memorable faces in the staff and customers, but no ambushes or assaults like back at the airport with Alice, thank God. They smile and nod, the occasional quirk appearing here and there, but no real inquisitions or one-on-one confrontations. Thankful for the relatively smooth entrance, I seat myself in a booth facing north, the faintly sticky menu pulling my lips upward.

And I start wondering exactly when I became such a nostalgic sap to the point where smells of rust and sensations of sticky menus initiate remembering smiles.

I decide on ordering the usual eggs and bacon with hash brown and shut the menu closed when the faint buzzing of my phone trickles against my thigh again.

Sighing, I fish my cell out of my pocket and purse my lips at the blinking screen, Alice's name and picture begging for my attention.

Maybe I should answer it. It could be an emergency.

I snort. Right, like Alice has the appropriate view of the definition of an emergency. My mind flashes back to a time in sophomore year when Alice called our house phone fifteen times and left seven voicemails, claiming in a suspiciously anxious tone that "_It's urgent_." When I finally got back to her, breathless and nervous, she proceeded to whine in her tinny phone-voice that she had nothing to wear to the Valentine's Day dance.

The girl has a problem.

And then I snort, because I'm one to fucking talk.

"Bella?" a voice suddenly jerks me out of the memory.

My eyes dart upwards instinctively, bored, and they immediately widen.

Oh shit.

He stands there with his hands in his pockets, hair a lot shorter than I remember, dazzling white smile flashing against his skin. Black T shirt hugging his chest and arms, jeans and sneakers, and he hasn't changed a bit.

I gulp. "Jake." My voice says his name like a rustle of the wind or something, shaky and wayward.

"You're back in Forks," he widens his eyes, smiling wider.

I chuckle, breathless and strained. "Um. Yeah, I guess I am."

You guess you are? Really?

He overlooks my idiocy, fortunately, and laughs instead. "That's so great," he grins, familiar and homey, his face shining with so much joy, it's hard to doubt his glee. "Come over here," he laughs like he's shocked while widening his arms, and I gulp, momentarily frozen is shock.

Do I hug him?

Do I not?

Do I run?

I eventually break from the conversation with myself to scramble out from the booth and slide to the ground, practically falling into Jake's warm, solid squeeze.

It's strange how fast my eyes reflexively close, my arms returning his fierce hug with honest effort. He feels…nice. I find myself remembering just how comfortable he can be.

I chuckle and step back, our arms falling to the sides. "Thanks. It's—yeah, it's good to be back." It's surprising, how easily the lie comes now, but with Jake so close, it doesn't quite feel like one.

He nods, then quickly glances at something over his shoulder behind him, towards the counter. His order, maybe?

"It's good to have you," he faces me again, smile still in place, matching his eager tone. He sounds so genuinely joyful, I can't help but grin back. "How _are_ you?"

I shake my head. "Oh, same old same old," I wave my hand casually, settling back in my booth so he looks down. "You know."

Dodging the ghosts of my past that refuse to stop haunting me, trying to discover whether I'll ever be truly happy again, yadda yadda yadda. The usual.

"I heard you were in California?" he raises his eyebrows, and I wonder whether in surprise or skepticism.

"Yep," I nod. "California. Stanford." Rub it in more, Bella, jeez.

My subconscious is not a kind lady.

He whistles high, rocking back on his heels a little. "Swanky Swan, huh?" he winks.

I laugh at the action, so casual and friendly, and shrug. "You know me, Black. Money and victory pump through these veins," I curl my arm, fisting my hand.

He chuckles at that, nodding. "Don't I know it."

It's a little awkward once the silence settles in, as anticipated, but not as much as I thought it to be, which is pretty shocking. In fact, I'm surprised he's even talking to me right now, that he was the one who initiated contact earlier when we hugged. After all that happened—what I did and put him through, how could he laugh and joke and chat with me like we were best friends just yesterday?

I shake my head, unpleasant recollections knitting my brows together, and I glance up at Jake and his always-sunshine attitude, glossy hair and flashing smile. How could I hurt him?  
>"Jake…" I begin, my voice lower and more serious. I glance up, hoping to get through this part quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. "I know I've apologized before, but—"<p>

"Don't, Bella." Soft words but firm eyes as he stares down at me, light and intense at the same time. He shrugs, pulling his lips up in a non-frown that doesn't equal a smile. "I know you did what you had to do. I…I don't blame you," he shakes his head.

"But I should've—"

He waves me off, a careless expression on his russet face. "Ah, coulda shoulda woulda," he grins.

"But Jake—"

"I mean it, Bella. It's in the past."

In the past.

And I'm indisputably jealous of how cooperative his past is at staying there.

Another glance over his shoulder and the topic is thoroughly executed. Just like that. He turns to me after a few seconds, his smile wider, eyes bright and excited.

It isn't until I see her walking over to him that I realize they're together.

Like, together, together.

Slight discomfort. Nothing huge. But it's there. Pressed on my chest, clenching my teeth together as I watch a slim, pointy-nosed redhead take a stance next to Jake, a brown paper bag of food dangling from her pale hands.

"Bella," Jake shifts, leaning into the girl and darting his eyes to me. "This is Maggie. My girlfriend."

No hesitation. Determination, pride echoing. A proper, firm, established title.

The one I couldn't give him.

I gulp back a disbelieving scoff and wave slightly. "Oh," I blurt out, hoping my voice doesn't sound too surprised. "Hi," I nod.

She's lovely. Clear blue eyes, scattered freckles, oval-faced with ringlets of her scarlet mane hanging around her shoulders.

"Hello," she smiles, and her teeth are slightly crooked. It makes her all the more human, though. Like it's the one flaw that makes the perfect quality of everything else acceptable. "_Bella Swan._" The way she says my name raises a red flag somewhere in me, my eyebrows quirking automatically. "I've heard so much about you."

My smile tightens and I shoot a glance at Jake, who just grins and shrugs. My eyes find Maggie's again. "Well, if you heard it from Jake, be assured they're all lies," I fake-whisper, shaking my head at the tall, tan boy next to her.

"Hey!"

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, "He does know how to stretch the truth a little."

"That was one time!" he exclaims, mouth agape.

I laugh at them. Because they're cute and young and happy. Because he's happy.

"Well our breakfast is going to get soggy, so I guess we better go," Maggie shrugs, looking politely forlorn. There's not enough genuineness in it, though, to be convincing. I can tell she's uncomfortable. As she should be. If she's really heard _so much_ about me, from Jake, no less, I don't blame her for wanting to dart out here as soon as possible. I'm about two seconds away from ditching this popsicle stand myself.

"Yeah, well…I'll see you around, Swan," Jake nods while taking Maggie's hand.

I nod back, gulping, and my eyes dart down at the mesh of white and brown fingers before I realize it. "Yeah. Maybe I'll drive down to La Push or something," I shrug, glancing back up at the happy couple. I probably won't.

He smiles widely. "That'd be so awesome. We could get everyone together again, just like old times."

And what is it with these people and the constant desire for rallying up the past?

"Mhmm," I hum.

They leave hand-in-hand and I watch them make their way across the parking lot, into a small blue Honda that must be hers. They talk and squint and smile at the blinding gray sky, and drive off.

A hollow ache rings in my chest, causing the nibbling of my lips, and I think of how quickly he's moved on. How I'm happy for it. For them. Him.

It still hurts, though.

And I realize I can't be in Forks for three whole months without anything to do but go to old diners and relive old memories and greet old friends and wallow in the past, which is waiting at every corner.

Distractions, distractions.

My waiter comes immediately, almost as if the moment was timed, and I'm startled by the words tumbling from my mouth as soon as he appears.

He hasn't even had a chance to offer me water before I ask, "Are you hiring?"

* * *

><p><strong>-ST-<strong>

* * *

><p>"I'm bored."<p>

"I'm boreder."

"Borderline retarded," I snicker.

Edward's face is suddenly visible as his head pops up from his stretch across the foot of the blanket.

"That's politically insensitive, you know," he sniffs, resting his head on the cloth after a second so he's back to lying straight across from my feet, our bodies forming an L-shape. I squint after him, wondering where he heard those words because I don't know any other thirteen-year-old who uses them. Not even me.

And I'm a smart cookie. Or at least, that's what my parents and teachers tell me.

"You don't even know what that means," I huff.

I can practically hear the rolling of his eyes. "Do, too. My dad told me about it."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What's it mean then?"

"It means," he starts, dramatic pause following, and I grin because I can tell he really has no clue, just a big mouth. "Isabella Swan is a big stinky monkey with ticklish feet."

Smile melting. My head shoots up, "Edward, don—"

His fingers are already jabbing at the soles of my feet, though, making me scream and laugh and wriggle like a worm in the sun.

"Stop it!" I shriek.

"Say you're a big stinky monkey!" he commands, hands continuing their torture on my poor feet.

"No!" I gasp, clutching my stomach.

"Say it!"

"Never!" I laugh, eyelashes wet, face cramped from smiling.

He keeps tickling me until I can't breathe, my limbs flailing like mad, so I struggle to rise from my lying position on the blanket to stop the madness, sloppily sitting up in a rush and tucking my feet underneath my butt so he can't reach them.

I stick my tongue out at his disappointed face, still breathless. "Hah," I pant. "Can't get 'em now."

He sits up, too, facing me. "I'll get you back for that politically insensitive remark," he promises using those weird words again, and smiles. It looks a little different, though, from his other smiles. Not that I pay attention to his them or anything. It's just that this one looks strange. Warped and lopsided.

Crooked. I think I might like it.

"What?" he asks, smile fading.

I don't realize I'm looking at his mouth before my eyes dart to his own, squinty and green, wondering and accusing.

"What?" I echo stupidly.

His brow furrows. "You were staring at me."

"No, I wasn't." I lie, and it feels thrilling. I was absolutely staring. At him. And for some reason, that feels strange. But right.

"Yes, you were."

"No, I wasn't."

"Was too."

"Was _not_," I grind my teeth, my cheeks faintly flushed because this is getting embarrassing. I wish he would just drop it already.

"Bella, I saw you. Your eyes, they were staring at my—"

"Have you ever been kissed?"

Stupid stupid stupid stupid.

Wide eyes. High brows. Face open, mouth shut.

Why why why why why.

He looks shocked and confused and embarrassed, just like me.

My thoughts come rushing in against the silence of the wind on this unusually sunny day in my backyard where the green grass is almost blinding against the glaring sunlight, our bright yellow picnic blanket providing thin support from the damp ground and reflecting golden off his skin.

I don't even know why I said it. Blurted it out. Like a burp, a hideously disgusting burp. I just wanted him to shut up, to switch the topic.

And that's it. No other reason why I asked Edward if he's ever been kissed. None at all.

It's not like I've been thinking about it lately or anything, certainly not that.

I gulp. He fidgets.

"Um."

"I was just wondering," I shrug casually, picking at a scar on my knee, telling myself my act is believable.

He pauses, suspicious. "Why?"

"'Cause," I spit back.

His eyes narrow. "'Cause _what?_"

"Just 'cause, Edward."

"That's not a good enough reason, Bella."

"I was just _wondering_, jeez," I groan, randomly thinking to how my mother calls me a goat; horns curled, defensive, always ready to clash with whoever comes in my way, and I decide that maybe Edward is one, too.

Maybe that's why we fight all the time.

Maybe that's why we're friends.

I can't imagine a goat being pals with a lamb, anyway. Too different, too mismatched and uneven.

But maybe we're too similar.

My head shakes against the confusing thoughts that suddenly invade my mind, and he catches the action, thinking that I've reached the end of my rope.

"I haven't," he blurts out, quick and sloppy, like his own hideously disgusting burp. "I haven't kissed anyone." He shrugs, like it's no big deal, and I guess it's not, but his actions come off as stuck-up instead of confident.

It annoys me.

I clear my throat, inhaling. "I haven't either."

He grins, and it bothers me like a splinter stuck under my skin. "I didn't think so," he tells me, eyes examining his fingers.

"What?" I scoff before I can help it, mouth wide open in disbelief. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs, relaxed as usual, setting down his hand. "Nothing. It's just obvious, Swan." I hate it when he calls me Swan. Like I'm an animal instead of a human being.

I fight the urge to grind my teeth. "What is?"

He rolls his eyes and sighs, like he's exhausted. "That you haven't been kissed."

"You haven't either, Cullen," I narrow my eyes at him.

"Yeah, but that's different."

That hardly seems fair. "How?"

"Because. You're just…You're Swan. You wouldn't kiss anyone," he shakes his head and purses his lips up at the corner of his mouth, doubtful.

I scoff, "Oh, and you would?"

He shrugs, the answer lost in the gesture.

"I don't believe you," I snort.

His brow furrows. "Why not? I would, Swan. I'm not chicken. Not like you," he grins.

And my mouth opens and out tumble words that I don't think about before they splatter to the ground.

"Fine, then, Cullen. I dare you."

"Okay," he laughs and shrugs, clearly not convinced, which makes my teeth clench along with my fists.

"I'm serious."

"Okay," he chuckles again, shaking his head.

My mind is a haze as I gape and I'm not thinking straight, the embarrassment and anger making my actions stupider and stupider. I don't care, though. I just want to shut him up, to see him flustered and bothered the way I always seem to be around him. He's so sure, so confident and cocky all the time, and it bothers the living crap out of me. Which is what makes me say the next words.

"Right now," I raise my chin a little higher. "I dare you. I dare you to kiss me."

Immediately, his chuckles halt. Shock explodes his features, jaw dropped, eyes wide, forehead wrinkled in surprised confusion and the look on his face is priceless.

It's hilarious.

I almost want to smile. Until I realize what I actually just said.

_Right now. Dare. Kiss. You. Me._

Oh, crap.

My eyes widen along with my mouth, and I try to hide the surprise on my face to save my pride but can't, because I can't stop thinking about how I just dared my best friend to kiss me.

What is wrong with me?

"What?" Edward gulps, eyes wide as saucers.

I'm hesitant and confused and uncomfortable, so I shake my head, clearing my throat. "Nothing."

He's insistent. "You said something—"

"Just forget it," I reply quickly, wishing he would do as I say for once. "I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did," he says slowly. "You dared me to kiss you."

A hundred emotions run through me, each one popping up before I can smash it, like that game Whack'A'Mole we play at Chuck E. Cheese's. Embarrassment, shame, surprise, confusion, fear.

And now, pride. "Yeah, well, you're not gonna do it," I snap, raising my chin.

He cocks his head backwards a little, surprised and a little offended. But then his eyes narrow. "Yeah? Who says?"

I shrug, "You did."

"I never said I wouldn't do it."

"Well, you're not doin' it." My voice is mocking and pressuring; the way his sounds when he teases and pressures me into doing something I don't want to do but end up getting talked into completing later on.

Why am I talking him into this again?

Because I'm proud when I least should be.

Oh, yeah.

"Doesn't mean I won't," he replies.

I raise my eyebrows, and I know I seem like an impatient little brat, but I can't stop myself, because the words are pouring out like bullets from a gun. A defense. "Well, will you or won't you?" I don't know what I want his answer to be.

"Do you really want me to that badly?" he grins.

Fire beneath my cheeks. "I—you—it was a _dare_, Cullen," I narrow my eyes. "One that you're refusing to perform," I add smugly.

He gets flustered at that. "Well—just—God, can you gimme a second?"

I roll my eyes. "For what?"

"I don't know, Swan, preparation or something. Isn't that what people do when they're about to kiss someone?"

And my stomach does a little flip when he says that, because it means he's about to do it; he's about to kiss me.

_As a dare_, my brain reminds me.

But still. A kiss.

The concept is strange and foreign, but not altogether unpleasant. It's weird, though. Definitely weird.

Because I thought I'd see the Earth explode before the day Edward kisses me. We're friends; always have been, since that day in first grade when he tripped me and I stole his juice box. Other girls stuck with each other, playing with Barbie dolls or braiding each others' hair, but all that stuff is so boring compared to the adventures Edward and I go on, hunting for werewolves in his backyard, trapping frogs from the lake, racing to see who could climb trees the fastest. I always lose and he always helps me limp home when I fall, which is sadly often.

Besides. I'm not like other girls in my class, the ones who smell like flowers and wear dresses to school and smile politely. The ones boys whisper about when they think Mrs. Williams isn't listening. When I'm not listening.

I'm not the girl boys kiss.

But I guess I'm wrong, because here I am, minutes away from having my mouth met with Edward Cullen's.

And my palms start to moisten as I gulp, nerves coating my stomach.

He still hasn't said anything—hasn't moved an inch—and I wish he would just get it over with.

"I don't have all day," I say, voice slightly shaky.

"I just…" he trails off, then shakes his head, facing me. "Never mind. Let's do this."

"Okay."

"Alright," he nods.

We gulp and it's weird, the air tight and uncomfortable. Neither of us make the first move, and I bite my lip, looking at him as he blinks at me.

Why, oh why did I dare him to do this?

Suddenly, his eyes change. From naïve and wide, they narrow with a teasing glint. "Well, come over here," he beckons with his head.

The stress of the moment is momentarily eased as I huff, rolling my eyes, but do as he says. I scoot a little closer, still sitting on the balls of my feet with my knees bent as he sits cross-legged and waiting. I stop when my folded knees touch his hooked ankles, and then glance up, hoping my nerves don't show.

His do. "Okay," he sighs, nodding a little. "It's just a kiss, right?"

I want to scoff at his nervous demeanor, poke fun at his hesitance, ask if he wants to back out and call him a coward with a snicker, but can only nod back. "Yeah," I tell him, my voice lost in the gentle wind. "Just a dare."

"Right," he replies.

"No big deal."

He gulps and nods, scooting a little closer so we're just inches apart, and I realize how close we are.

So very, very close. It sort of scares me.

All joking and teasing and ridicule is sucked from this moment, a weird intense heaviness settling on us that makes us both hyperaware of our voices and bodies and breaths. My head is swimming with random thoughts; I can see the glowing green of his eyes, the freckles scattered across his nose, how his hair catches red in the light, and I'm thinking of how both our mothers are chatting in the kitchen on this sunny day, oblivious to the happenings in the backyard between their just-turned-teenage children, sipping lemonade or watching TV as Edward and I incline our heads closer.

"Do you want me to go first, or should you?" he asks, voice soft and quiet.

I shrug slightly, biting my lip, and I don't miss how his eyes dart to the action. "I don't know. I guess we could go at the same time." I don't ask it, but it sounds like a question.

He nods. "Okay."

"Okay."

He mutters, "Sorry if I suck," just seconds before moving his head forward, and it's enough time for me to respond with, "Okay," and a nod.

Our noses are almost touching, but it's not close enough, and his eyes are starting to close, so I start doing the same, and I thrust my head forward, almost wincing immediately after, and our lips meet.

And all I can think is: We're doing it. I'm doing it. He's doing it. We're doing it.

It's not magical and I don't feel like I'm floating or flying or being even remotely lifted from the ground like I've eavesdropped some girls describing how it feels. It doesn't feel like a dream.

In fact, it feels all too real. I'm not perched on a cloud; I'm being planted firmly to the ground, to his mouth connected to mine, like I'm sinking into him, into this, this, whatever this is.

Warm and soft, that's how it feels. Attached and heavy, his lips pushing against mine with more force, causing me to make a strange noise of effort in the back of my throat and I wonder how long I can go without breathing when suddenly, we stop, mouths open and breathing heavily.

Our lips aren't touching, but they're close enough to be, and that's when I notice my eyes are closed.

They snap open abruptly to meet his own. Green like the sea, and I think I might be drowning.

It's not exactly uncomfortable as we stare unblinkingly, breathing each other's breaths, the moment drawn out like a long thread unraveling.

He opens his mouth wider, taking in a breath, about to say something, and he licks his lips.

Silence.

My mouth is hammering in time with my pulse, shooting through me like a rocket, my eyes darting to his lips.

_They touched mine_, I think, blinking disbelievingly.

I scoot backwards a little so we're not face-to-face anymore, and I feel both relieved and troubled by the distance.

"So…" he starts, eyes watching me carefully when I'm a good foot and a half away, still sitting on my feet. I feel like a bird caught in a cage when he stares at me like that, and it bothers me how I'm not more bothered by it. "Did I?"

His vagueness annoys me, and I gulp. "Did you…?"

"Suck at it."

Oh.

I shake my head, ignoring the voice inside my head shouting at me to taunt and tease, instead being up-front and genuinely honest. "No."

He nods, contemplative, gaze never leaving mine.

I clear my throat, "Did I?" I ask, curious and knowing he'll tell the truth.

"Did you…?"

I want to roll my eyes. "Suck at it."

A hint of a smile pulls at his mouth, and his eyes turn lighter, less intense as he shakes his head. "Mmm…no, I wouldn't say you did."

"Hmm. So I guess we're both kissing experts," I muse softly.

He laughs at that, the sound splitting all tension in the air like shattered glass, and I smile at the sound of broken shards. "I guess so. Although I think we'd have to practice a lot more to be pros," he continues. "Like the Jefferson's, _ugh!_"

I snicker, nodding, thankful for the change in atmosphere. From tense and heavy, the mood is now teasy and light. We aren't the two teenagers who were sharing their first kiss on a blanket in my backyard. We're just Edward and Bella, and that's so much easier.

I wonder if the two could coexist.

"Oh, man, those two are always smooching outside their doors," I laugh heartily. "It's like they train in the kissing Olympics or something," I shake my head, images of the middle-aged couple in our neighborhood swapping spit on their front porch making me grimace.

Then what he said is ringing in my head: _We'd have to practice a lot more to be pros_.

I gulp, realization dawning on me along with confusion. _Practice? With each other, or with other people? How long would we practice for? Are there going to be breaks? Will my lips start to hurt after a while?_

"So…" he begins, breaking me out of my thoughts.

My eyes dart to his. "Yeah?"

"Do you wanna…" he shrugs, "like, do something?"

I nod, fighting the urge to laugh. "Like what?"

"I have a new catcher's mitt in my room," he offers, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh, sweet," I reply, immediately rising from my crouch. I stretch my legs out a bit, the muscles tight and heavy, and try to get the blood flowing, pumping. "Wanna go get it?" I ask, my head gesturing to the right as I start walking backwards to the edge of the blanket, further from him. He lives just a few streets down, so it only takes about fifteen minutes to walk to from mine.

"Sure," he nods, rising. He does a few stretches of his own, sighing, and just when I expect him to start walking, he just lifts his head and stares. At me.

I'm nervous and uncomfortable under his gaze, squinting at his face, tempted to ask what his problem is or start snapping my fingers in his face.

"But before we go," he begins, voice different from before, all soft and heavy as he starts walking towards me across the blanket. His steps are slow and purposeful, making me stare in confusion.

"Yeah?" I ask, hating the squeak of my voice. But his eyes are making it difficult to emit any sounds that aren't either high-pitched peeps or soft whispers. It's all extremes with Edward.

"I need…to tell you something," he continues, now less than a foot in front of me, eyes dark and focused.

I exhale inaudibly, thoughts of his new catcher's mitt quickly fading, replaced by the sound of his voice. "What is it?"

His face is much closer now, our noses almost touching, just like before.

Before. When we kissed.

Oh, my God. Does he want to kiss me? Again? Is this what he meant by practicing? Man, does he work fast.

Edward inhales sharply, halting my tangled thoughts. He leans in closer, making my breath hitch, my lips involuntarily parting when his mouth is centimeters from mine, but then they trail to the left a little, to the edge of my moth, past my cheek, to my ear.

"It was a good dare."

My heart feels like it's in my throat as I gulp. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And Bella?"

"Yeah?"

I feel the curve of his lips as he smiles against my ear, his voice a warm whisper. "Race ya."

My eyes rip open wide, mouth gaping, head turning to shoot Edward a glare, but he's already running ahead out of my backyard, a good five feet in front of me, his mischievously grinning face turned to see my angry, shocked scowl.

"I'll get you for that, Edward Cullen," I grit under my breath, and start running after him.

* * *

><p>-<strong>ST-<strong>

* * *

><p>Charlie's cruiser sits in the drive when I pull up in front of the house after breakfast, a knit in my brow appearing at the sight of his car.<p>

I check the dash before cutting the engine, noticing it's only half past ten, and reluctantly get out of the car, my thoughts immediately filled with worry. Suddenly, going out for breakfast this morning seems reckless and stupid.

_Why is he home early? Did something happen? Have the hours of his shifts changed?_

I shake my head when I reach the front door, attempting to clear the haze of worry, and step in, calling out his name once before closing the door behind me. No one responds.

I hang the keys in the hallway with my bag, make my way to the kitchen, and stop short at the sight before me.

All I can see is my father's crouching figure that seems to be rummaging madly through the refrigerator like a burrowing prairie dog. A bit disorienting, I'm not gonna lie.

"Charlie?" I squint.

"Bell—oh, oof!" he grunts when his head bangs against the inside of the refrigerator, and I have to clamp my lips together to keep from laughing.

"What are you doing?" I nearly giggle, hand on my mouth.

My dad sighs and curses in a whisper before ducking his head low and removing his upper body from the fridge to stand up straight and whip around, facing me. His expression sheepish, slightly flushed, and a little worried, he avoids eye contact with me.

"I…uh, I stopped by the store is all," he nods, and it's then that I notice the foil-wrapped container in his hands that makes my nose wrinkle, the trash bin that he dragged from the corner of the kitchen and propped against the fridge door, the paper bags filled to the brim with groceries with the printed Thriftway logo piled at his feet.

"Oh," I gasp, eyes wide. He was serious? "I didn't think…I mean, I could've gone to—"

The throat-clearing is rough and loud enough for me to recognize he wants to interrupt me, so I stop talking, eyeing him suspiciously as he stares back.

"Bells," he begins, eyebrows drawn together. "I can do it myself," he claims, and it's amazing how instantly I view him as a child when he's at least twenty-five years my senior. He's my father, for Christ's sake.

And yet.

"No, no, of course," I shake my head. "But, I just—Charlie, you were at work. I could've—"

He shakes his head, another interrupting gesture. "I decided to take a later shift today at the last minute. Bells, I didn't ask for you to visit just to have you stay as a live-in maid, you know."

I sigh. "Of course. I know."

"I mean it," he continues. "I…" he runs a hand through his more-pepper-than-salt hair, shaking his head. "I know I'm not as…talented as you, when it comes to the preservation of some things…like the kitchen and whatnot. But I'm a grown man."

I want to smile. "I know, Charlie."

He nods, accepting my knowledge for now. "I know you worry."

I gulp, fighting the urge to bite my lip. "It's in my blood," I chuckle weakly.

His eyes meet mine for a moment, brown to brown, and I can feel the heaviness in his gaze. He wants me to take this seriously. "You don't have to worry about me."

And this time I do smile, if small. "Right back at ya, pops."

That seems to soften his mood as his face relaxes of a few creases, eyes softer. "Well, you're all the way in California for nine months out of twelve—what's a lonely guy to do?" he teases with a joking smile.

But I hear the truth to the jest, and my chest clenches a little tighter at his words.

He can tell.

"Bells, I'm kidding," he laughs, making my head shoot up.

"I know," I roll my eyes.

"Sure you do," he mutters, shaking his head. "Help me with this, will ya?" he gestures to the grocery bags at his feet.

"Yeah, sure," I nod, rolling the sleeves of my jacket up to my elbows as I make my way to the refrigerator. "Just don't expect me to touch any of that shi—er, disgusting crap in there, Charlie. Haven't gotten my tetanus shot just yet, remember."

He chuckles. "I remember. You and needles…don't get along so well."

I huff and shake my head but bend down to pick up the grocery bags and heave them up on the kitchen table and countertops, slowly lifting packages of meat and fruit while trying not to show my surprise.

"You, uh…found your way around the Thriftway alright?" I ask, attempting to sound casual when inside, my eyes are wide as saucers. I thought my dad only knew where the toothpaste aisle was.

He chuckles condescendingly, and I picture a smirk on his worn face. "I told ya I could take care of myself, Bells."

"Yeah, yeah."

He laughs at my annoyed tone and then casually asks where I went off to this morning.

The package of strawberries is suddenly frozen in my grip, my throat constricting in a gulp. "Um."

"Yeah?" he prompts, his voice followed by the plop of some rancid food item being tossed in the trash.

"The Lodge."

"Oh?"

"Mhmm." The strawberries are released and I fold the empty grocery bag in half messily, stacking it on top of the others before starting on the next paper sack.

"Lotsa people musta approached you, huh?" he asks, and I wonder if I'm imagining the smile in his tone.

"Uh, well I guess so." I sigh, removing a carton of milk, memories of Jake and Maggie's hand-holding creating a bothersome prick under my skin. "Hey, Dad? Speaking of The Lodge…" I trail off, unsure how he'll react to discovering I might very well be spending more time waiting on tables and taking orders in the greasy diner than folding his laundry upstairs or washing the dishes.

He said he could take care of himself, after all.

"Yeah?" he grunts before another heavy plate is heard being dropped in the trash.

"I hope you don't mind…I mean, I just—today when I went in, I sort of asked for a job." I find myself wincing after I tell him this, then peek my eyes open when his silence has gone longer than expected.

I whip around to face him, finding his gaze on my face, a smile stretched across his lips.

I'm immediately defensive. "What?"

He shakes his head just a tiny bit, grin still in place. "Nothing."

"What? Why are you—what do you think?"

"I think that's a swell idea, Bella."

"Really." I sound more suspicious than surprised, my eyes narrowing.

"Really," he nods.

"Why, exactly?"

He shrugs, his glance elsewhere as he sighs. "Maybe because I think it's great you're choosing to get out there and be productive instead of staying in here all summer. Maybe because I think the folks down at The Lodge would love to be served by your familiar face after such a long period of time without it. And maybe because…well, to be honest, I think it'd do you some good to have a job. Especially now."

Right there. Those two words.

Apprehension makes my forehead wrinkle, and I observe Charlie's nervous eye-flitting before his gaze finally lands on me.

"What do you mean," I ask slowly, "by especially now?"

He tries to hold it in, to remain straight-gazing, but ends up sighing in defeat, his eyes falling to the floor. "In the Thriftway, I…the cashier register was talking about this fancy doctor in town, I just—"

My eyes instinctively close, lips clamped shut, breathing ragged, and stop it, you can do this.

I open my eyes and tell myself I am able to at least hear _of_ him, damn it.

"I know he's back." Charlie's voice is deep and soft and slow, and I know he's trying his best to be gentle. I love him for it, but hate that he knows.

I nod with pursed lips, eyes cutting to stare at out the window above the sink. "Yeah, I…" And I don't finish. I don't have to.

"An internship, or something of the like. I don't really know, I kinda tuned out at the mention of his name…"

And in spite of it all, I allow myself a smile, because Charlie really can't lie to save his life, and that's yet another endearing trait he's bestowed upon me. Lucky me.

"It's okay, Dad, you really don't have to explain," I assure him, meaning every word. The last thing I want to know are specifics. The why's, who's, where's, what's, and how's. I don't care.

Right. Keep telling yourself that. Maybe you'll believe it.

"That's why I think The Lodge would be great," he says after a little bit, shrugging. "I mean, you'd have something else to focus on. Not that, you know, without distractions, you'd be wallowing, but I just—"

"Save it dad," I laugh, shaking my head, turning back to continue unpacking groceries and hearing him return to the task of throwing away putrid food. "It's fine, really. I'm excited about The Lodge, anyway." It's the truth, too. Working in a diner might not pay too affluently, but I couldn't care less. Because as far as distractions go, it should do the trick.

Hopefully.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Not terribly eventful, but hopefully informative. Chapter title comes from a lyric in "Spanish Sahara" by Foals. Check 'em out! Don't forget to review :D**

**How was your first kiss?**


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